


guns for hands

by hanzios



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Bunker Years, Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, LMAO, Light Angst, M/M, Mild Smut, but like the Vibe is smutty, idk if u can even consider it that???, just some introspective rambly stuff lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:42:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27472942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanzios/pseuds/hanzios
Summary: “Why do you love me?”The question seems to catch the older man off-guard, because he pulls away his head a little, eyebrows knitting together in pure confusion. For what feels like an eternity, it seems as if Jackson couldn’t answer the question. He only stares at him, confirming the ugly feeling in Miller’s gut.OR: Jackson tells Miller how much he loves him
Relationships: Eric Jackson/Nathan Miller
Comments: 11
Kudos: 10





	guns for hands

**Author's Note:**

> so, this is _probably_ the closest i will get to writing anything even mildly smutty. but i was just struck with inspiration to write something more mature for mackson, so i wrote it!. with (of course) some good old-fashioned angst. 
> 
> also, i love writing miller, and i especially _love_ exploring his more vulnerable, emotional side. i hope this does him justice. :)

He can’t pinpoint when the rattle of the machineguns doesn’t shock him anymore, how the sheer force of the bullets doesn’t send him back, leaving his fingers quivering and unable to shake off the slight buzz on his fingertips. There is a shame that fills his gut when he realizes he couldn’t count how many people he’d killed.

All Miller remembers is Bellamy, in the dropship, shoving a gun into his chest, the weight of life and death hanging above his head.

He shoots and shoots and shoots.

War after war after war.

And yet here he is, the love of his life moving on top of him, lips trailing over Miller’s scarred, imperfect skin, leaving soft kisses and hot puffs of breath on the wounds he’d collected through years of battle.

He doesn’t deserve this.

He doesn’t deserve the way Jackson looks up at him through thick lashes, nothing but deep affection fogging his ochre eyes; doesn’t deserve the man’s hands wandering up and down Miller’s toned chest, touch as gentle as their first; doesn’t deserve the warm smile he gives him – bright and blinding – when he pauses to admire the man below him.

But Miller’s body betrays the guilt he’s feeling, allowing the lust on his groin to spread through his veins, the warmth quickly reaching his head.

“ _Jackson_ ,” he moans as Jackson catches a bit of Miller’s inner thigh with his teeth. He reaches to grab the back of Jackson’s head, threading his fingers through the man’s short hair.

His view is more than pleasant, with Jackson teasing him, the doctor’s shoulders tight and lean. Jackson’s muscles contract as he reaches for Miller’s free hand, interlacing their fingers together. Despite the bouts of desire flooding through his torso, his eyes focus on their joined hands, mind wandering into dangerous territory.

He wonders how many lives his hands have taken; wonders further how many lives his partner’s hands have saved.

Selfish.

_He doesn’t deserve this._

Miller doesn’t feel Jackson’s mouth stopping just above the fabric of his groin, casting a worried look towards him.

“Hey.”

He doesn’t deserve _him._

“ _Baby_.” Jackson moves to hover above Miller, casting a shadow into his face. This seems to have been the only way to snap the man out of his intrusive thoughts, which are, as of late, getting more and more frequent.

Miller blinks his eyes clear, not realizing what had just happened. When he looks up, Jackson’s concerned eyes are staring at him, a hand cupping his jaw.

“What’s wrong?” he whispers.

“Why do you love me?”

The question seems to catch the older man off-guard, because he pulls away his head a little, eyebrows knitting together in pure confusion. For what feels like an eternity, it seems as if Jackson couldn’t answer the question. He only stares at him, confirming the ugly feeling in Miller’s gut.

“I understand if you don’t,” His voice is scratchy and guttural, as if these words have clawed itself out of Miller’s throat. “I… I don’t think I’d love me, either.”

He didn’t think it was possible for Jackson’s brows to furrow further, but they do.

Miller couldn’t look at him, so he turns away.

“ _Look at me,_ ” Jackson gently prods Miller’s face, a certain honesty in his eyes that burn a hole straight through Miller’s head. “I love you because you’re _brave,_ because you never hesitate to back away from a fight. And I love you because you’re _loyal,_ to your friends, to your people, to _me._ ” He presses a chaste kiss on Miller’s cheek.

“I love you because you’re _good,_ and you always know the right thing to do.” Another kiss, nearer to his jaw, their stubbled cheeks scratching lightly.

“I love you because even in this godforsaken bunker, you never fail to make me laugh.” Jackson expels a hot breath into the corner of Miller’s mouth, pressing his lips barely against the other’s.

“And _I love you_ ,” – Miller thinks he can never get tired of hearing him say those words – “Because I have never had someone love me as much as you do.” He takes Miller’s hand and kisses his knuckles, eyes never leaving Miller’s. “Nobody’s ever touched me as soft as you do. I love you because you’re _the only thing_ keeping me alive.”

Jackson leans forward and captures Miller’s lips, tender and easy and holds all of the other words he wants to say. Miller moves his mouth against Jackson’s, a hand sliding to the back of his head. He doesn’t think he’ll love anybody as much as he loves Jackson; doesn’t think he’s _ever_ loved anybody as much as he loves Jackson.

And when you love someone _this_ much, you have so much more to lose.

In an instant, an intense feeling of greed and wanting consumes his chest – and it is a dangerous combination.

Miller deepens their kiss, pulling Jackson close as he thrusts his hips forward. Jackson lets out a groan into his mouth, breaking into a grin. Miller could feel the movement on his lips, the same lopsided smile on his face.

He’s satisfied doing this forever with Jackson, even if it’s above thin layers of bed sheets and stiff pillows inside the medical supply room, their backs and knees hurting against the hard cement floor. This will probably leave bruises in the morning, but he doesn’t care.

This thing between them is what keeps him going, more than his orders and his duty or the tasteless rations on the mess hall. It’s almost unbelievable how easily Jackson makes Miller forget about all his horrible thoughts; how he could heal his heart with his words and steady fingers and big, brown eyes; how he could effortlessly disarm him with one small smile.

God, a love like this doesn’t belong in Miller’s chaotic world.

But, somehow, it does. Because Jackson has let himself in, a few hundred days ago, settling on the space just below Miller’s ribcage and taking shelter.

He doesn’t deserve this, but he wants it. He _needs_ it.

And Jackson is giving it to him, their sweaty bodies pressed against each other as if two puzzle pieces that were meant for each other, and he’s muttering nothing but filth into Miller’s ear, voice low and groaning at each buck of his hips.

_I love you, I love you, I love you._

Miller whispers it over and over into Jackson’s scratchy cheek, bouts of pleasure erupting through his body, his calloused hands tightly wrapped around Jackson’s back, thumbs pressing against his shoulder bone. Miller should be ashamed at the soft sounds escaping his mouth, but he doesn’t care, taking Jackson in with open arms.

When they finally finish into each other, Jackson leans forward to hungrily kiss Miller, the warrior returning it with equal passion. Time seems to drag on beautifully slow before Jackson pulls away, breathing hotly into Miller’s mouth.

Through half-lidded eyes, Miller watches Jackson smile – bright like the sun, _burning_.

Jackson moves until his bearded chin drags along the bridge of Miller’s nose. He presses a gentle kiss on the younger man’s forehead, bony fingers clutching the side of his head.

There is something so achingly raw and human with how Jackson’s simple touch could calm Miller’s warring mind, as if his hands were destined to heal everything he comes into contact with. It’s beautiful, he thinks, how a man with guns for hands fell in love with a man who wouldn’t pull the trigger.

As he nestles into his lover’s chest, listening to the faint sounds of his heartbeat, Miller considers himself the luckiest man alive to have been sucked into Jackson’s blinding light.


End file.
